But no, that was impossible. He’d just met her, and beyond that, he did not do love. Amendment: he did not do the heart-pounding, mind-fogging, overabundance of lust that was so often confused with love.

He loved women, of course. He liked them, too, which he was aware made him rather unique among men. He loved the way they moved, and he loved the sounds they made, whether they were melting in his arms or clucking their disapproval. He loved how each one smelled different, and how each moved differently, and how even so, there was something about them all as a group that seemed to brand them together. I am woman, the air around them seemed to say. I am most definitely not you.

And thank heavens for that.

But he had never loved a woman. And he did not have any inclination to do so. Attachments were messy things, given to all sorts of unpleasantries. He preferred to move from affaire to affaire. It fit his life-and his soul-much better.

He smiled. Just a little one. Exactly the sort one would expect from a man like him at a time like this. Perhaps with a little extra tilt in one corner. Just enough to lend some wry wit to his tone when he said, “You stepped into my room.”

She nodded, but the motion was so slow he couldn’t be sure she even realized she was doing it. When she spoke, there was a certain dazedness to it, as if perhaps she was talking to herself. “I won’t do it again.”

Now, that would be a tragedy. “I wish you would,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile. He reached out, and before she could guess his intentions, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It was certainly,” he murmured, “the most pleasant welcome of my day here at Belgrave.”

He did not let go of her fingers as he added, “I very much enjoyed discussing that painting with you.”

It was true. He had always liked the smart women best.

“As did I,” she answered, and then she gave her hand a gentle tug, forcing him to relinquish his hold. She took a few steps toward the door, then paused, turning partway around as she said, “The collection here rivals any of the great museums.”

“I look forward to viewing it with you.”

“We shall begin in the gallery.”

He smiled. She was clever. But just before she reached the door, he called out, “Are there nudes?”

She froze.

“I was wondering,” he said innocently.

“There are,” she replied, but she did not turn around. He longed to see the color of her cheeks. Vermillion, or merely pink?

“In the gallery?” he asked, because surely it would be impolite to ignore his query. He wanted to see her face. One last time.

“Not in the gallery, no,” she said, and she did turn then. Just enough so he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “It is a portrait gallery.”

“I see.” He made his expression appropriately grave. “No nudes, then, please. I confess to a lack of desire to see Great-Grandfather Cavendish au naturel.”

Her lips pressed together, and he knew it was with humor, not disapproval. He wondered just what it would take to nudge her further, to dislodge the laughter that was surely bubbling at the base of her throat.

“Or, good heavens,” he murmured, “the dowager.”

She sputtered at that.

He brought a hand to his forehead. “My eyes,” he moaned. “My eyes.”

And then, bloody hell, he missed it. She laughed. He was sure that she did, even though it was more of a choking sound than anything else. But he had his hand over his eyes.

“Good night, Mr. Audley.”

He returned his hand to its proper place at his side. “Good night, Miss Eversleigh.” And then-and he would have sworn he’d been prepared to allow her to depart-he heard himself call out, “Will I see you at breakfast?”

She paused, her hand on the outer doorknob. “I expect so, if you are an early riser.”

He absolutely was not.

“Absolutely I am.”

“It is the dowager’s favorite meal,” she explained.

“Not the chocolate and the newspaper?” He wondered if he remembered everything she’d said that day. Quite possibly.

She shook her head. “That is at six. Breakfast is laid at seven.”

“In the breakfast room?”

“You know where it is, then?”

“Haven’t a clue,” he admitted. “But it seemed a likely choice. Will you meet me here, to escort me down?”

“No,” she said, her voice dipping slightly with amusement (Or exasperation? He couldn’t be sure), “but I will arrange to have someone else lead you there.”

“Pity.” He sighed. “It won’t be the same.”

“I should hope not,” she said, slowly shutting the door between them. And then, through the wood, he heard, “I plan to send a footman.”

He laughed at that. He loved a woman with a sense of humor.

At precisely six the following morning, Grace entered the dowager’s bedroom, holding the heavy door open for the maid who had followed her with the tray from the kitchen.

The dowager was awake, which was no great surprise. She always woke early, whether the summer sun was slipping in around the curtain edges, or the winter gloom hung heavy on the morning. Grace, on the other hand, would have gladly slept until noon if permitted. She’d taken to sleeping with her drapes open since her arrival at Belgrave-the better to let the sunlight batter her eyelids open every morning.

It didn’t work very well, nor did the chiming clock she’d installed upon her bedside table years earlier. She thought she would have adapted to the dowager’s schedule by this point, but apparently her inner timepiece was her one rebellion-the last little bit of her that refused to believe that she was, and forever would be, companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham.

All in all, it was a good thing she’d befriended the housemaids. The dowager might have Grace to start her day, but Grace had the maids, who took turns each morning, slipping into her room and shaking her shoulder until she moaned, “Enough…”

How strange about Mr. Audley. She would never have pegged him for a morning person.

“Good morning, your grace,” Grace said, moving to the windows. She pulled open the heavy velvet curtains. It was overcast, with a light mist, but the sun seemed to be making a good effort. Perhaps the clouds would burn off by afternoon.

The dowager sat up straight against her pillows, queenly in her elaborately styled, domed canopy bed. She was nearly done with her series of morning exercises, which consisted of a flexing of the fingers, followed by a pointing of the toes, finishing with a twisting of her neck to the left and right. She never stretched it side to side, Grace had noticed. “My chocolate,” she said tersely.

“Right here, ma’am.” Grace moved to the desk, where the maid had left the tray before hurrying off. “Be careful, ma’am. It’s hot.”

The dowager waited while Grace arranged the tray on her lap, then smoothed out the newspaper. It was only two days old (three was standard in this region) and had been neatly ironed by the butler.

“My reading glasses.”

They were already in Grace’s hand.

The dowager perched them on the tip of her nose, taking a gingerly sip of her chocolate as she perused the paper. Grace sat in the straight-back chair by the desk. It was not the most convenient location-the dowager was as demanding in the morning as she was the rest of the day, and would surely have her hopping up and down and across the room to her bed. But Grace was not permitted to actually sit next to the bed. The dowager complained that it felt as if Grace were trying to read over her shoulder.

Which was true, of course. Grace now had the newspaper transferred to her room once the dowager was through with it. It was still only two and a half days old when she read it, which was twelve hours better than anyone else in the district.

It was strange, really, the things that made one feel superior.

“Hmmm.”

Grace tilted her head but did not inquire. If she inquired, the dowager would never tell.

“There was a fire at Howath Hall,” the dowager said.

Grace was not certain where that was. “I do hope no one was injured.”

The dowager read a few more lines, then answered, “Just a footman. And two maids.” And then a moment later: “The dog perished. Oh my, that is a shame.”

Grace did not comment. She did not trust herself to engage in early morning conversations until she’d had her own cup of chocolate, which she was generally not able to do until breakfast at seven.

Her stomach rumbled at the thought. For someone who detested mornings as she did, she’d come to adore breakfast fare. If they could only serve kippers and eggs for supper each evening, she’d have been in heaven.

She glanced at the clock. Only fifty-five more minutes. She wondered if Mr. Audley was awake.

Probably. Morning people never awoke with only ten minutes to spare before breakfast.

She wondered what he looked like, all sleepy and rumpled.

“Is something wrong, Miss Eversleigh?” the dowager sharply inquired.

Grace blinked. “Wrong, ma’am?”

“You…chirped.” She said this with considerable distaste, as if handling something with a particularly foul smell.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” Grace said quickly, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. She could feel her cheeks growing warm, and she had a feeling that even in the morning light and with the dowager’s diminished vision, her blush would be clearly visible.

Really, she should not be imagining Mr. Audley, and especially not in any state of dishabille. Heaven only knew what sorts of inappropriate sounds she would make the next time.

But he was handsome. Even when all she’d seen of him was the lower half of his face and his mask, that much had been clear. His lips were the sort that always held a touch of humor. She wondered if he even knew how to frown. And his eyes…Well, she hadn’t been able to see those that first night, and that was almost certainly a good thing. She’d never seen anything quite so emerald. They far outshone the dowager’s emeralds, which, Grace was still chagrined to remember, she’d risked her life (in theory, at least) to keep safe.